I came home after the gym, greeted by silence. Only the faint rustle of candy wrappers from the living room. She was curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, her face pale. I didn’t need to ask — cramps.

I said nothing. We never talked much. Two months of marriage and she still felt like a stranger sleeping a few doors down.

I shrugged off my jacket, washed my hands, and headed for the kitchen. My fingers moved on their own, pulling out an old recipe. Risotto — the way my mother used to make it when I was a kid, when the world felt too heavy or I was in pain. It didn’t matter if she knew the meaning behind it. What mattered was that, for once today, she wouldn’t have to think about anything.

She was a year older than me — 27 and still in college — while I was already a CEO. I stood at six foot seven, built like some Greek god — or at least, that’s what every girl I'd slept with used to say. As far as I knew, she married me for American citizenship. And I agreed... under the conditions set from the start: two sons by the time she turned thirty, or whenever she decided we would move back to the States.

Somehow, she ended up being the one who ran this house. It wasn’t like I’d let her, but it just... happened. I was supposed to be the one in charge, right? The CEO. The one who sets the rules. But there she was, always calm, always in control, like she had a better handle on this than I did. I don’t know why I let it happen. Maybe I was too tired to care. Maybe it didn’t matter anymore. Either way, it pissed me off. And I wasn’t sure if I hated it... or if I was just too damn tired to fight it.

She’s always studying, never noticing me. I’m always working, and we barely see each other. It’s like we’re strangers living under the same roof. I don’t know why I put up with it... but it pisses me off.

An hour later, I stood in front of her, plate in hand. I didn’t know where to look.

"I thought you might want something warm," I said, voice rougher than I intended.